


at the beginning

by orphan_account



Series: I'm in Nouveau Paris with you [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, First Meetings, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-14
Updated: 2013-08-14
Packaged: 2017-12-23 11:43:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/925983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire spends an unexpected night with Les Amis, the city's most wanted band of anarchists.</p>
            </blockquote>





	at the beginning

Grantaire is drunk, cold, and hopelessly, _hopelessly_ lost, somewhere in the damp, cobbled streets of Nouveau Paris, and rapidly approaching soberness with every slightly more panicked moment he is spending outside, alone, two hours after the appointed curfew.

Not a good situation at all.

He rounds a corner and squints at the street sign, the letters blurring in front of his eyes; after several failed attempts in reading it, he gives up and leans against the nearest street lamp, using its low yellow light to roll a cigarette. He wills his fingers to stop shaking for the few moments it takes him to stuff the precious tobacco in the wrapper; the stuff is rare and expensive these days, and he isn't prepared to waste it.

He takes the first drag as deep as he can, sucking the smoke greedily until his lungs are full to the brim, until he can relax a little against the hard metal pole behind his back and accept he is utterly, deeply fucked.

Missing the last night train wasn't the best of his ideas and neither was deciding to walk home while still under the influence of the absinthe, and now both of those things were going to get him arrested, or even worse, questioned. The memory of a once already visited white room makes him wince, and he shivers in the cool night air, grateful for it at least being cold enough for him to come to a functioning level of inebriated.

He's just finishing the cigarette and wondering how he's supposed to find his way out of the unfamiliar neighbourhood and avoid the police patrols at the same time when he hears a hushed voice from the alley behind him.

"Hey, you! Dude! You!"

There is a young man staring at him from the darkness.

" _Me?_ ", Grantaire mouths.

"Yeah, you! What are you doing out after hours?"

Grantaire's heart stops. One violation is probation, two violations are-

"I'm not the police, you idiot! Step away from the fucking streetlight and come over here!"

Without thinking, Grantaire stumbles toward the unlit street corner, thousands of possible situations running around his mind at once. The young man studies him for a long moment.

"I have no money", says Grantaire honestly. "I appreciate the attention, however."

"I'm not going to rob you", the man hisses, a smile pulling at his lips despite the gravity of the situation. He has an open, friendly sort of face, the kind of face which makes you trust its owner almost instinctively, accompanied with a small smile and bright, curious eyes; Grantaire can feel himself calm down a little already, without any apparent reason.

"What are you doing out on the street? You're gonna get yourself killed", the stranger says, and he sounds worried, _actually worried_ for Grantaire.

"Lost", Grantaire admits sheepishly, and the man sniffs, and scrunches his nose.

"Should've known. You _reek_ , my friend. It is truly terrible."

"It's absinthe", says Grantaire, a bit offended, and the man grins.

"You're gonna have to come with me now, dude, sorry. If they catch your drunk ass, and they will, believe me, they _will_ , it's going to attract attention to this block... and we wouldn't want that."

"...we?", asks Grantaire after a moment, but the man just grabs his hand and pulls him down the little alley quickly.

Grantaire thinks about refusing, protesting, struggling; but after a moment he realizes he has nowhere else to go. And there are long five hours left 'till six in the morning - good, safe, government-approved six in the morning.

They walk only to the middle of the alley, stopping short in front of two enormous dumpsters, smelling somewhat horribly. The man turns to smile at Grantaire once more, before pulling him around and behind the dumpsters, revealing an old door, almost unnoticeable under the heavy layer of graffiti sprayed over them.

 _This is it. I'm in real deep shit now,_ Grantaire thinks.

His thoughts wander to an article he read that morning, about unrests in the Southern Quartier of the city, and the band of anarchists who 'made several threats toward the police and worked to disrupt the system'. Yadda, yadda, yadda. There was no point in reading the newspaper these days; the freedom of the written word was the first thing the Big Guys bought when they came to power.

Les Amis, they called them.

It was all over town, whispered along like a dirty little secret; Les Amis, friends of the people, the young students who dared defy the rules. No one knew where they came from, or how far they were willing to go; but they were there, fighting.

Grantaire wants very much to care about it, except it's hard to think about big things like freedom and oppression when you are barely scraping by.

The man knocks on the door three times.

There is a quiet, dragging sound, like metal scraping against metal, and then a pair of eyes peers at them suspiciously from a small gap Grantaire would swear wasn't there before.

"Password?"

"General L", the young man whispers, his grip on Grantaire tightening just a bit.

The eyes turn to look at Grantaire inquisitively, and he stares back, trying to appear indifferent.

"Courf, who-"

"Just open the door already, Bossuet, I don't have time for this", the man - Courf? - says snappishly, glancing toward the alley entrance and the distant sounds of the patrol sirens.

The door opens instantly, and Grantaire is shoved roughly into the dark.

******

The room is lit only by moonlight, breaking through the smudgy, tall window panes, and the rare, far away street lamp, mixing the industrial yellow and pale blue into one soft light, enough just to line the contours of everyone's faces.

They all stare at Grantaire, who looks back, wide-eyed, trying to take in as much detail as possible.

It's an abandoned factory - that much is obvious - a large space smelling distinctly of mould and smoke, filled with broken furniture, the wallpaper peeling from the walls, dirty and old and left to rot.

Except someone found it a new purpose.

There is a whisper in the dark, a sound of a match being lit, and the quiet intake of breath of a flame springing to life. A tall, somber looking man with glasses holds up a candle, the shadows of its light flickering across his face. He inclines his head to one side, and stares at the man whose name is apparently Courf.

"Oh, _you know_ he's not going to like this", he says, his tone flat.

"I'll talk to him", Courf says brightly, nudging Grantaire closer to the small table in the center of the room, and the group of men standing around it.

They are all still staring at him, their expressions ranging from curiosity to apprehension to amusement. Behind them, he can see the table is covered with maps and blueprints of buildings, systems, streets... He wonders if maybe a night spent in a jail cell and a permanent mark on his record was a better option than this.

"Couldn't just leave him out for the dogs, could I?", Courf says, pushing Grantaire forward. "Wandering around the streets, drunk outta his mind, cruising by the street lights... he was too easy a target."

"You can't just bring _anyone_ you want here, you know", the other man says, and Courf shakes his head with a smile.

"Nah, Combeferre, he's alright-"

"But how can you possibly know that? He'll-"

And Grantaire is starting to wonder who this infamous _he_ is. Probably the chief of this little gang, a drug lord or a black market organ seller, or a...

" _What_ is _this_?"

... a Greek god.

An angel.

A young man in a dark red trench coat and blood in his hair and a furious look on his face, striding across the room towards Grantaire.

"Enjolras, I was beginning to think you'd never-", Combeferre starts but the young man just glares and gestures angrily at Grantaire.

"Who is this? Who brought him in here?"

"I'm-", Grantaire starts, but Courfeyrac pushes him aside gently, and looks up at Enjolras, his expression unexpectedly calm.

"It's alright", he says. "He's with me."

"Courfeyrac, you better have an explanation for this, and it better be good", Enjolras says.

Grantaire would almost be insulted, with the way they're all arguing about what to do with him like he isn't right there, right in front of them; except he finds it hard to care with this man - _boy_ , his mind supplies, _he's barely of age_ \- in front of him, all fire and anger and blood and eyes ablaze.

He's staring. He knows he should stop, but he is staring.

"He's drunk, as you can see", Courfeyrac says, gesturing at him, and Grantaire snaps back to reality, just in time to meet Enjolras' scrutinizing eyes. Having the complete focus of his attention strikes Grantaire as  terrifying and affecting; his breath hitches.

Enjolras sniffs.

"I can smell", he says, and his voice is sour and cold, and Grantaire's cheeks flush bright red with shame.

"He won't remember a thing by tomorrow morning, look at him, he's _pissed_ ", Courfeyrac continues, clearly feeling like he's winning this argument, a small smile on his face. "He's barely even standing."

"Actually", Grantaire starts, but suddenly there's a painfully tight grip around his arm, fingers digging into flesh, and he closes his mouth. Courfeyrac's smile doesn't falter, only tightens at the ends.

Enjolras glances from one to the other; he doesn't meet Grantaire's eyes again.

"I couldn't just leave him out there in the cold, Enjolras", Courfeyrac says, and there's a slightest trace of a whine in his voice.

"It's June", someone says, and there is something that sounds suspiciously like a snicker, and Enjolras' face changes many different expressions.

"Fine", he spits out, in the end, and walks away, running a hand through his hair. "Just don't make it a habit of bringing strays."

He turns away from them and leans over the little table, obviously done with the conversation.

The way the candlelight illuminates his profile makes Grantaire's heart skip a beat - he looks like something Grantaire studied in art history, a long time ago; like a statue sprung to life, like Michelangelo's David in a big, dirty coat and with blood smudged over his cheekbones, and a flame buried deep in his eyes.

Courfeyrac gives Grantaire a small smile, and releases his grip.

"Sorry", he mutters. "Just... go sit down in a corner somewhere, and try not to listen in too much. This is still better than getting caught out there, right?"

"Yeah, I...thank you", is all Grantaire can think of to say, and the man's face lights up with another broad smile.

"Sure", he says, patting Grantaire on the back, "we all gotta stick together, right? It's either us or them, anyway."

And then he leaves, too, to join the group by the table, no doubt discussing something very important. Grantaire settles in a small, solitary chair by a shaky, three legged table a bit farther from the center of the room and tries, very hard, not to listen in on what they're planning. Little bits of conversation, inevitably, float his way: he overhears words like _attack_ and _fire_ and _weaponry_ and _secret,_ and he shuts his eyes and hopes feverishly to fall asleep, just fall asleep and wake up in the morning and be in his bed in his shitty flat and not in the actual hidden base of criminals hoping to overthrow the government.

After some time, he hears their voices grow louder, easier; like the heaviest problems were discussed.

He can distinguish Enjolras' voice easily from the others, telling them how well they did tonight, and how they have only just begun and how there is so much more that must be done; the whole stereotypical, encouraging leader talk, except Enjolras makes it sound like a song, like a hymn; Grantaire chances a glance towards the little group.

He guesses it's in the way he speaks, angrily and determinedly, his mouth biting and spitting out the words, shaping them aggressively. He is in full command. He is the leader, the chief.

He is... breathtaking.

Their eyes meet, only for a moment, and Enjolras frowns and turns away and pats the nearest man on the shoulder.

"You should go patch up, Jean", he says, his tone suddenly gentle, and the strawberry blond haired man touches the gash on his forehead and nods.

"You should all probably get yourselves checked", Enjolras continues, looking at the others with concern and watching them walk away toward the other end of the room, where a nervous looking young man is already putting bandages on a much larger man with some kind of impromptu first aid kit.

"I think you're the one who needs patching up the most", Combeferre says to him, loud enough for Grantaire to hear.

"It's nothing", Enjolras returns, running a hand through his bloody hair. His knuckles are purple with bruises. "I'll ask him to stitch me up last, I feel good enough to stand."

"You won't be by the end of the night", Combeferre says, and Enjolras gives him a look.

The tall man shrugs.

"Alright, alright. Do what you will. I have more important things to do than argue with five year olds in twenty year olds' bodies, you know."

It's a joke, a mild one, between friends, and Grantaire takes a moment to marvel at the fact there's an actual, _actual_ small smile at Enjolras' lips as Combeferre turns away towards the plans on the table.

And then Enjolras' eyes meet Grantaire's again, and a scowl replaces the smile as he marches across the room.

"Sobered up yet?", he asks, leaning on the back of a chair opposite Grantaire's with his hands and fixing him with a stare. He is even more handsome up close, with deep blue eyes and late night scruff dragging along the lines of his jaw.

"Working my way to it", Grantaire says. Then, after a moment: "Are you the Amis?"

It comes out unexpectedly, but he isn't sorry. He just needs to know.

Enjolras doesn't look taken aback; he just clenches his jaw.

"What's it to you? Want to join? I have to warn you, it's not a wine tasting club."

"Funny. No, I don't want to join. I find the whole thing rather pointless", Grantaire returns, annoyed with the uncalled for jab.

Enjolras' face looks like it's about to explode.

"Pointless? I guess you could call it pointless, if you find freedom of speech and equality for all futile concepts."

"I don't, I just call them unattainable. The way you're doing it, anyway."

"I'm sorry?"

Enjolras looks downright angry with this, and Grantaire would never admit it, but he's enjoying it, a little.

"What are you trying to achieve, stirring up fights with the watch? Getting seriously injured over... what? That's not how you're going to get anywhere."

"You have to show force in order to gain power", Enjolras says. "It's the only way."

"Or, you can show knowledge and live to see another day", returns Grantaire.

"And you think we have no knowledge of the system?'

"That's not what I said, but yeah, I do. In fact, I think you have no knowledge of the world", says Grantaire.

Enjolras' face scrunches up. It looks almost comical. Grantaire is distantly aware of everyone's attention being directed at them, but he doesn't care.

"You think people haven't tried this before? Ignited rebellions, brought homemade weapons, tried to overthrow 'the Man'? It's happened, and it's all ends the same way - in blood."

"That doesn't stop the people from trying", insists Enjolras.

"That only shows how stupid people are, allowing themselves to hope", returns Grantaire. "Hope that they, and only they, can change the world. Hoping the world can be changed. Hope is what kills you, in the end."

"Oh, I see", Enjolras says. "A cynic, then?"

"To the very core", Grantaire replies, with a grin.

"You are wrong", Enjolras says, "In every shape and form of the word."

"We all have our faults", returns Grantaire lazily. "Except for you, of course."

"What's that supposed to mean?", Enjolras asks.

"Well-"

"Doing one of your speeches again, Enjolras?", a female voice calls out, and everyone turns to look at a figure reclining against a wall, her image obscured by the shadows.

"You know how much I like to interrupt them."

She steps forward deliberately slowly, aware that every eye in the room is fixed to her. When she passes by one of the windows, moonlight reveals the features of her face, if only for a moment. Her eyes are dark and heavy lidded, and her lips are full and a deep shade of red. She's wearing an old army jacket, too big for her, and worn out leather boots, with their tongues lolling out.

"How did you come in?", Enjolras demands, and she just shrugs, meeting his eyes with a smile.

"You should really check the buildings you choose for your headquarters better. I know your boiling hot revolutionary blood can get steamy sometimes, but you shouldn't let it cloud your head. Third floor, get someone to block the fucking enormous hole in the wall. As soon as possible."

"You got some new info?", asks Enjolras with a sigh, his shoulders drooping a little, and she smiles.

"Maybe", she answers softly, and then catches sight of the table with the maps. She makes a small sound of surprise and walks towards it, absentmindedly shrugging out of her jacket on the way.

Beneath it, she's wearing a faded, dark green shirt with the sleeves cut out; her arms are covered in tattoos, black, elegant swirls of ink on tanned skin. She swings her dark, heavy hair over her left shoulder, and leans to inspect the maps closer.

There is something deeply sensual about her, in the way she moves and acts, that draws attention of everyone in the room. A few men in the back are staring at their feet, their ears bright pink.

Grantaire doesn't even realize Enjolras isn't standing in front of him anymore, until he's all the way on the other side of the room, leaning close to the strange girl, the two of them talking in hushed voices.

The sudden stab of jealousy is unexpected and very surprising; Grantaire presses his lips in a thin line and looks the other way, and wishes, not for the first time, for this particular night to end already.

******

It's almost three am, according to the broken clock lying in one of the room's corners, when another voice pierces through the murmurs of the Les Amis.

"Why, this is adorable."

Grantaire opens his eyes and turns his head with the rest of them, and squints as yet another figure approaches the group from the room's shadows.

"Is this, like, the night of unexpected visitors?", asks Courfeyrac. "Is that what's happening right now?"

The man chuckles quietly, and takes a few more steps forward, eyes searching the people in front of him. The cut of his suit is slim and fitting, and outlines his lean body perfectly, all in black.

"Did you know", he says lazily, "that if you break into the building next to this one, there is a hole in the wall on the top floor the size of an elephant connecting it with this one? Most intriguing."

"Fuck off, Montparnasse", Enjolras says coldly.

The man doesn't even blink, his grin growing wider.

"Come on, you're all smart boys. You know why I'm here. Let's do some business. I got cigarettes, fresh from the border, unopened. For you people, 50 percent off."

One of the men makes a sound dangerously close to a whimper, and Enjolras pierces him with a look, as Montparnasse nonchalantly walks up to the center of the room and meets Eponine's eyes.

"Back in town, are you?", she asks with a smirk.

Montparnasse's smile turns wicked at the corners, and he bows flamboyantly to kiss her hand.

"Why, Miss Thernadier", he says, straightening and meeting her eyes, "it's been a long time."

"Not long enough", she says, and takes her hand out of his. "What have you been doing, Montparnasse? Still smuggling? Playing in your shadows?"

"I do what I have to do in order to survive", he says lightly. "It's a big, bad world out there. You should know."

"And there ain't nothing better than a big, bad wolf to run it", she replies, cocking an eyebrow, and he grins again, their eyes not once breaking contact.

Enjolras clears his throat.

"I'm very sorry to interrupt your wonderful little run-in, but we have things to do, and I'd rather not have _him_ hanging about", he says, inclining his head towards Montparnasse, who reacts with exaggerated shock, lifting one hand to his mouth, eyes wide and yet still mocking.

"Oh, I'll just see myself out, then", he says to Enjolras. "Just wanted to check in with you boys, see if you're still playing revolution in here. You know where to find me, in case you need anything."

Enjolras' jaw sets.

"We don't need anything from you", he spits out, and Montparnasse pouts, the playful expression not reaching his eyes.

"Oh, Enjolras", he says. "When will you understand we're on the same side, you and I? We're both fighting the system, in our own ways."

"Except you're doing it for your own profit", Enjolras says, blue eyes burning.

"But at least the people gain something as well", Montparnasse replies, dropping his smirk. "I give them extra rations of food, warm clothing, medicine. And what have you given them so far? A bunch of whispers and a newspaper article. Yes, you're really achieving _a lot_."

Enjolras starts at him suddenly, hands curling into fists, but Courfeyrac and Combeferre pull him back firmly, grabbing him by the shoulders and waist.

Montparnasse doesn't even flinch, just smiles bitterly, watching him.

"Eponine", he says, averting his eyes to the girl, who is watching him with an unreadable expression. "You know where to find me. So sorry to crash your little party. I bet it was really...quaint."

He leaves through the door, as nonchalantly as he came in. The sound of the rusty lock as Bousset slides it back into place scrapes everyone's ears in the silence that follows.

"What does he need _you_ for?", Enjolras asks sharply once the suavely clad figure is out of sight.

 "That's none of your business", Eponine replies, crossing her arms over her chest. "Last time I checked, I wasn't working for you."

"No, you're working _with_ me", Enjolras says.

"And I can work with him, too."

"What do you even _do_ for him?"

"Twirling back to that 'none of your business' thing, pretty boy", Eponine says, with a vicious curl to her lips.

Enjolras huffs, puffs, and falls silent, instead just choosing to glare.

She returns the look with the equal amount of ferociousness in her eyes, but a victorious shine in them, too.

******

It's 5 am, and Grantaire watches as the Les Amis pack up their plans and maps and leave the factory, one by one, quiet and watchful and wary. He watches as Courfeyrac and Combeferre exchange last words with Enjolras, who nods, says something in response and pushes them gently towards the door.

And then there's just him and Enjolras, and the first light of dawn breaking through the windows. Grantaire is very aware he is supposed to be going before the streets fill up, but something pulls at him to linger just a little while. He watches Enjolras' back carefully as the man puts away something that suspiciously looks like a blueprint of the Goverment Headquarters in his bag.

"Not gone yet?", Enjolras asks, with his back still turned. "I thought you'd be first at the door."

"Yeah, well", Grantaire says. "I... I just wanted to say thank you, for not kicking me out on the street last night. It was... I'm very grateful."

Enjolras turns, and Grantaire is once again fixed to the spot by those eyes. He gulps.

"It's nothing", Enjolras says. "I just don't know whether I can trust you or not."

"One hundred percent", returns Grantaire, suddenly feverish.

To have Enjolras' approval, to be in his favor, to be looked at with praise by those blue eyes, suddenly seemed the only thing that could ever be important.

"Yeah", says Enjolras softly. "We'll still have to monitor you from time to time, you know that."

Grantaire shrugs.

"We're all being watched anyway. I don't mind if it's at least _you_ monitoring me."

For a short, fantastical moment, Enjolras looks speechless.

"I, um", he continues after a second, and Grantaire isn't sure if he's just imagining the blush that is rising to Enjolras' cheeks, "there's a train stop just two blocks on the left. So you should be fine. It'll take you straight to the city center."

"Good", Grantaire says, and stands up. "I guess I'll see you around, then?"

"I should hope not", Enjolras says. "Our spies are excellent. You'll probably never even notice them."

Grantaire nods, biting his lip.

"Thanks for an interesting night, anyway", he says, and leaves.

 It's almost two months before they see each other again.


End file.
